


Phonemic Awareness

by yesterday4



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:11:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8318683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: This is a pre-reading skill.  It is the ability to notice, think about and work with individual sounds (phonemes) in spoken words.  Because Mary Winchester taught Dean a thing or two, as well.





	

_**March 30, 1979** _

“Winken and Blinken are two little eyes, and Nod is a little head. And the wooden shoes that sailed the skies are the wee one’s trundle bed,” Mary recited, timing her words to the soft pats she was giving her baby’s back. Paused a moment to say, “Come on, Dean, sweetheart. Big burp for Mommy!”

Dean didn’t oblige, clenching and unclenching his fingers spasmodically against her shoulder. She took an unnecessarily deep breath of sweet baby smell and moved her cheek closer so that his little head was cushioned when he tried to angle it this way and that. Trying to see the mobile in his crib, she thought absently. Ear that close to his mouth, there was no way she could miss the sound she was waiting for, and she grinned at him, strangely proud of his belch, when she cuddled him back into her chest.

Dean smiled back, a fleeting experiment of a grin that was soon replaced by the ducky lips he made when he was concentrating. Went cross-eyed trying to see them. Mary tickled at his stomach with her fingernail and cooed at him. Her little boy, her dream baby.

Well, he was the envy of the neighbourhood anyway. He was so, ask anyone. Allison Hanson’s kid two doors down screamed at anything, but not Mary’s Dean. Nothing much riled him—didn’t make strange, didn’t care about household noises—outside of a wet diaper. 

And his diaper at the moment was very much dry, thanks ever so.

Pushing herself up out of the rocker, Mary swayed back and forth as she went to the crib. Placed Dean down and made sure there was nothing for him to tangle himself in, although she _knew_ there wasn’t; checked every time she put him down. Confident that he wasn’t going to choke to death or smother himself, she reached up and switched on his mobile, watching him watch the tiny brightly coloured plush cars whirl above his head. 

John’s choice, that mobile—she’d liked the ones with ducks better. Well, the ones with flowers, truthfully, but maybe the next baby would be a girl. Someone for this little guy to watch over. 

Rubbing slow circles onto her son's full belly, Mary picked up where she’d left off, voice lower and soothing. 

“So shut your eyes while Mother sings of wonderful sights that be, and you shall see the beautiful things as you rock in the misty sea…”

 

**June 15, 1981**

“Too big!” Dean hollered, racing down the hallway with his blankie over his head like a cape. “Tooooo big!”

It wasn’t that Mary saw red exactly. It was more that Mary was tired, and her feet hurt. And, damn but so did her head, pounding perfectly in time with the sound of two year old feet running away from her as fast as they could. 

She caught up with him at the top of the stairs, hanging back fearfully a few feet away from the gate. He’d managed to climb over it last week-- _somehow_ \--and had endured quite the crash landing. The whole incident had resulted in a bumped head and a healthy fear of stairs. 

Crossing her arms, Mary stared down her nose at him and tried to sound firm rather than frustrated. “Where do you think you’re going, little man?”

“A- _way_ ,” Dean announced, plopping down with a petulant huff as close to the gate as he dared. Quite melodramatically, he flopped forward onto his belly and glared up at her. “No bed!” 

She wished John wasn’t downstairs, since a little help would have been nice, but they had learned a few weeks ago that Dean absolutely would not go to sleep with the knowledge that his dad was up and doing something better, or at least not without a temper tantrum fearful to behold. Therefore, John was pretending to be napping with the television—not the best solution Mary knew, but God help her, the way that kid could cry! Which, hey—

Crouching down beside him, Mary held a finger to her lips. “Shh… you’ll wake Daddy. _He_ is very tired. It is past his bedtime.”

Dean looked horrified by his next realization and Mary was glad that he had not outgrown his ducky lips. 

“Daddy on chair,” Dean gasped. Summoning up some courage, he wiggled forward on his stomach in an attempt to see down the stairs.

“Mommy will carry him up and tuck him in, just like Mommy does with _you_ ,” Mary assured him. “Did you say goodnight?”

“Night night, little soldier,” Dean recited, before trying to bury his face in the carpet. And again, louder and more clearly this time, like he was beginning to doubt her basic intelligence, “No bed! Not tired!” 

Mary thumped him on the bum playfully and rocked back on her heels, fighting for patience. “I didn’t mean bed, silly. I was going to have a cuddle.” A shrug as she stood. “Oh well. Guess I’ll cuddle Percy instead.”

Mary was sitting in the rocking chair with Percy the Penguin in her lap, counting to ten in her head, and praying hard that this little bit of manipulation would work, when Dean wiggled into the room, on his stomach like a worm. He turned red at the sight of his toy in her lap, stood up, and ran over, neatly and quickly ridding her lap of the penguin.

“My mommy,” Dean told Percy’s poor fallen self quite seriously. He kicked at it for good measure when he scrambled up onto her lap, the most miserable and petulant cuddler Mary had ever seen. 

“You were a very good baby, you know,” she told him, planting a kiss on top of sandy brown hair. “Mommy’s good little man.” And also, “What are little boys made of, Dean?”

If Dean knew, he didn’t care. Was still glaring at the penguin. 

Rolling her eyes, Mary untangled Dean’s makeshift cape and wrapped it around him. 

“I’ll tell you what: snips, and snails, and puppy dog tails--” A pause to distribute a few loud smacking kisses that made him giggle. “—that’s what little boys are made of.”

 

**November 2, 1983**

“Dean, the lean, mean, fighting machine!” Mary exclaimed when Dean came in from outside, where he had been doing his best to disrupt John’s raking. He collided into her, arms open, and when she bent down to hug him back, he smelled like the outdoors. 

Letting her go, Dean wandered over to the car seat where Sammy was currently napping with one fist shoved inside of his mouth. He gave it an experimental rock, making it thump softly against the table. 

Angling his head at Mary, he asked, “Is he tired?”

Mary winked at him. “Babies are always tired. Except at bedtime.” Taking a momentary break from stirring what was in the process of becoming their supper, she leaned against the stove and added, “Are you going to practice ball later?”

Dean made a face, which she took to mean _no_ , and clambered up on a chair to reach the plate of cookies on the table. 

“Only one, mister,” she warned.

“Fat like Jack Spratt,” Dean replied, and giggled. Around a mouthful of cookie, he tacked on, “What’s _your_ nursery rhyme, Mommy?”

He’d figured out to his absolute delight that her name popped up in nursery rhymes a little over a year ago, and had taken an extra month to figure out that they weren’t actually about her. They were his favourites, though, the ones that belonged to her. 

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” she singsonged, “how does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockleshells, and pretty maids all in a row.”

He giggled again, before pushing away from the table and scurrying over to her, fist outstretched. She pounded his knuckles gently with her own, their secret code word handshake, and laughed to herself when he careened out of the room, hollering, “Lean, mean, fighting machine!” at the top of his lungs. 

 

**September 30, 1984**

“Is it good?” Dean asked John, anxiety written over every inch of his face. 

He was almost drowned out entirely by the whirring of the refrigerator so tentative was his question; John, who was reading his son’s first kindergarten monthly progress report, didn’t hear him at all. 

His next question was louder, and full of terror. “Am I in trouble?”

Past the pleasant platitudes and opening greetings of the report, John found this:

_In regards to the family history we discussed, Dean displays regressive tendencies, such as sucking his thumb when he feels anxiety. He can be temperamental, and has occasional outbursts and random bad behavior. He isolates himself from his peers, and almost always refuses to socialize. Attempts to willingly engage him in in-class activities have not been successful to this point._

_However, Dean is animated when discussing his little brother, and clearly feels the importance of being the Big Brother. This is good—Dean needs a purpose. I know that this must be difficult for you. I recommend patience and understanding—Dean is a good student, in spite of everything, and a pleasure to have in my class._

_It should be noted, too, that Dean has excellent phonemic awareness. When forced to play the rhyming game, he is aware that bean, lean, and mean all rhyme with his name, and can tell you so without hesitation. Dean will be reading in no time!_

“Daddy!” Dean implored, flopping forward to bang into his father’s knee. “What’s it say? Is Mrs. Elliott mad?” 

“You have excellent phonemic awareness,” John proudly read, without thinking.

Dean screwed up his face, and looked like he was trying to figure out whether or not John was telling him some kind of joke. Putting aside the report, he scooped Dean up in his lap.

“Means you can rhyme,” John told him, ruffling his hair. “Says you’ll be reading in no time. Which is good, kiddo. All of my little soldiers have to be smart.”

“Rhyming makes you smart?” 

John shrugged. “Rhyming helps you read, and reading makes you smart. Mrs. Elliott says so. Right… _here_.” And he pointed.

Dean sighed impatiently. “Can’t _read_ , Daddy.”

Very seriously, John said, “Good thing. Because it actually says what a talkative little kid you are. Never shuts up, it says. Babbles on and on and on and--”

“I do not!”

“No.” Sad truth. “You don't. What rhymes with Dean, son? Show your dad how smart you are.”

Softly, under his breath, Dean mumbled, "Bean. Green. Lean, mean, fighting machine."

**

Later on that night, when John passed the tiny room that Sam and Dean shared, he caught sight of his older son standing up on the stool by the crib, peering in at his baby brother.

“Rhyming makes you smart,” Dean was saying, whisper very earnest and sincere, “and being smart means you can read. Daddy needs smart little soldiers.”

John paused, afraid his footfalls would disturb the scene. It was no secret that Dean _did_ babble on and on and on to his baby brother, although normally he babbled nothing much of consequence, just funny sounding things to make Sam laugh, or comforting things to try to fill the void. Now though, leaning so far forward that he was almost in the crib, Dean was saying something else.

“Winken, Blinken, and Nod sailed off in a wooden shoe,” Dean was murmuring, voice feather light. “Sailed off on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew.”

**Author's Note:**

> Summary quote stolen quite shamelessly from [The NAA Foundation](http://www.naafoundation.org/pdf/nie_readfirst.pdf). Supernatural is not mine!


End file.
